Holiday Crackers
by coolbyrne
Summary: Happy Christmas?  Yes.  Happy Christmas party?  Not so much.  Bond and M suffer their way through a tepid holiday tradition.


He never held these sorts of parties in high regard. A yearly collection of co-workers who couldn't be bothered getting to know one another during the other 364 days. Of course, in their line of work, it was probably best not to get to know anyone too intimately- one was never sure who could be trusted and deadly circumstances could make any friendship woefully short-lived, literally.

Not that he could imagine being friends with any of these people, these men in their Savile Row suits who sat behind computer screens, decision-makers who held the lives of agents in their soft hands, without ever having spent a day in the field. One such "agent" glanced over to Bond's dark corner and raised his drink in greeting. Bond lifted his glass in return, if only to allow the amber to warm his throat and cover his distain. It was over the rim of the heavy crystal that he saw the faint shimmer of an oasis in an otherwise dire evening.

He wondered if she had just slipped in, grabbed her drink and headed straight for a darkened corner of her own, because it seemed unlikely he wouldn't have noticed her until now. If nothing else, being the only woman in a roomful of men would draw attention to oneself. Being a woman in the highest position of power in MI:6 would certainly guarantee it. But perhaps being a woman was the very reason few took notice of her. Oh, certainly there were the glad-handers who went over with holiday wishes, and there were more than a few guarded nods from clusters of cabinet men, but otherwise, her arrival garnered little fanfare. He suspected she was secretly relieved.

He allowed himself a small smile and casually made his way to her side. Taking in her tailored cream-coloured suit and white blouse, he nodded approvingly. "You're looking lovely this evening, M."

She gave him a sidelong look. "I believe the invitation clearly said 'formal'."

Looking down at his shoes, he couldn't deny his two-piece charcoal grey suit stood out amongst a sea of tuxedo black. He shrugged and replied, "They should have been more specific. For some of us rubes, this _is_ formal. Besides," he added, tilting his head to a small group of men across the room, "I bet my suit cost more than that gaggle of rented tuxedos put together." His assessment garnered him a short hum from her.

"How long have you been here?" she asked.

"Long enough to go through three of these," he replied, lifting his glass. "But not quite long enough for social etiquette to allow me to leave."

"Consider yourself lucky, Bond. I've got at least two hours of this."

He smirked. "Shall I tell the waiter to keep coming by with the drink tray?"

She gave what he could only describe as a snort. "No one needs to see me on the table with my knickers around my ankles, thank you very much."

To cover his amused surprise, he remarked, "It would certainly liven up the party." When no response came, he said, "I would liked to have known you in those days."

"Those days never happened," she told him. "And if you tell anyone otherwise, I'll have you eliminated."

He laughed and let the silence settle between them. Theirs was an odd relationship, his and M's. He was, as she had told him in the past, a "blunt tool"; an instrument to be used at the government's whim, which, by extension, meant at M's discretion. As his boss, she had shown no hesitation in implementing this discretion, shown no qualms about agreeing to do so. It was a path he had chosen to take since his early days in the Navy. Becoming a double-oh agent was the most logical conclusion, one he pursued with relish.

And yet, had that been the sum of their relationship, he wouldn't have bothered seeking her out tonight, and she wouldn't have bothered giving him the time of day. But as he looked around the room, he realized the one thing he had with M that he didn't have with any of these people. She respected the fact that he was her best agent, respected his instincts and particular talents. In return, he respected her for her unwavering conviction when it came to the importance of her job and the lives of her agents. Without having a single day's worth of field experience under her belt, she seemed to intuitively understand what it took to be an agent. She had gone to the wall for him- sometimes blindly- more times than he cared to count, because she trusted him. Trust wasn't a word tossed around lightly in their business, and Bond used the word even less.

He suspected that being an orphan only magnified his sense of distrust. It certainly seemed to be a match made in heaven, this coupling of his distrust and his career. A man who trusted no one would do well in a business based on deception. He glanced to the woman on his right and knew he wasn't entirely correct. He trusted her. Hell, he thought sardonically, his relationship with her was the longest he had ever had with a woman.

When he heard her give a short laugh, he wondered for a moment if he had said the words aloud. "Only another 110 minutes of this," she said, relieving him of his worry.

"You really don't like these parties, do you?"

Her expression said it all, but she complemented it by saying, "It's all politics, isn't it, James? I should be right in there," she said, indicating to a small group by the bar, "forcing just the right amount of arse-kissing past my lips in order to get more money and more support for our office. Unfortunately, I just don't have it in me."

"Not a schmoozer, M?" he asked innocently. Her steely stare triggered the corner of his mouth upward, shattering his ruse. "I suppose not."

She looked down into her glass and went on, as if ignoring his jibe, "And at a Christmas party of all places." He grunted at the holiday, catching her attention. "Not a fan of the season, James?"

"Not particularly."

"Do you have any plans?"

Now it was his turn to peer into his glass. "Beyond continuing where I leave off here tonight? No. I substitute family for drink."

"Please," she replied, "I have family and I substitute them for drink."

He smiled. It was just like M to scoff at his weak attempt at self-pity. She was not one to sympathize with wallflowers. "In spite of or because of?" he queried.

"Often both," she answered as she downed her drink.

"Shall I get you another?"

She seemed to genuinely consider the idea before replying, "No, I'd better not."

"Tables and knickers and all that, Barbara?" he asked slyly. Based on her reaction to his using her little-known Christian name, he would remind himself for the next several weeks to not be alone with her, where there would be no witness to the grisly demise promised in her eyes. "It is Christmas, after all," he good-naturedly defended himself. "M," he added.

She opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to change her mind. Glancing at her watch, she noted, "I think you've fulfilled your social obligation by now."

He took that as his cue to leave and sighed dramatically. "Thank God. And just in time," he added. "I think Ronson from Accounting and Expenses spotted you."

"Fantastic," she said without an ounce of sincerity.

"Happy Christmas, Barbara," he said and, bending slightly, gave her a kiss on the cheek.

To his surprise, this action was met with a simple, "Well, it is Christmas, after all."

He turned and nearly bowled over the bespectacled number-cruncher who had already made his way across the room.

"Ronson," Bond greeted flatly.

"Bond," came the reply. "If you're taking a taxi home, make sure you get a receipt this time, if you expect to claim it as a business expense."

Bond's eyes narrowed. "And a Happy Christmas to you, too."

He did take a taxi home, but forgot the advice of the bean-counter when, patting his suit for his wallet, he found an envelope in his right pocket. Taking his fare and generous tip, the taxi driver left Bond on the sidewalk under the bright glare of the street light. The familiar cursive penmanship on the envelope piqued his curiosity to such a degree that he didn't wait until getting into his flat to open it. With a deft slice of his key, the envelope opened and he pulled out a card. Its pristine ivory stock with a simple embossed "Happy Christmas" discreetly announced itself as coming from a measure of class without being overt. The handwriting inside did the same.

'Dear James,' it read, 'I expect you to do what the card demands. Happy Christmas. Always, Barbara'. There was a post-script at the bottom. 'I also expect you to destroy this card when you get to the end of this line.'

He laughed at the enigma that was M. And he was just about to dutifully execute her order when he stopped and put the card back into its envelope and into his pocket. It wouldn't be the first time he wilfully disobeyed orders.

-end.


End file.
